"They can't hear us, can they?" she queried, glancing back at the
others.
"Why, I expect not," Bill replied, surprised and mystified.
"If I say something to you, real confidentially, you won't give me away,
will you? Honest, for sure?"
"Honest, I won't; cross my heart; wish I may die; snake's tongue;
butcher knife bloody!"
"That ought to do, and anybody with any sense would believe you, anyway.
But, then, it will be a big temptation for you--"
"Resistance is my nickname; you may trust me."
"Well, then, in some way," said the girl, dropping her voice still
lower, "you are going to find that this work here won't be--it won't
go--not just as you expect it to; it--it won't be just plain sailing as
it ought to be and would be if you were let alone. There are things,"
she put a forceful accent on the last word, "that will interfere--oh,
sometimes dreadfully, maybe, and I felt that I must tell you, but--"
Bill, wondering, glanced up at her; she stood with her pretty face
turned away, a troubled look in her bright eyes, the usually smiling
lips compressed with determination. The boy's quick wits began to fathom
the drift of her intention and the cause thereof; he must know more to
determine her precise attitude.
"I must believe that you mean this in real kindness and friendliness
toward Gus and me."
"Of course I do; else I would not have told you a thing," Grace said,
blushing a little.
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